Highlander: Death Knell
by Diane J M Johnson
Summary: This is an alternate universe story that takes place in the same time frame as the early first season of the series. This is a one shot short story.


_(Author's Note: This story is based on a dream I had very early in the course of the "Highlander" television series, prior to the death of Tessa Noel and the death and subsequent immortalization of Richie Ryan. It was apparent from the outset that the series took place in an alternate world from that of the original movie, since The Gathering was still taking place and, therefore, Connor MacLeod had not yet received The Prize. The Watchers had not yet been introduced at the time that I had this dream, so Joe Dawson had not yet spoken to Duncan about Connor's having killed Kurgan back in '85. Please bear all these things in mind as you read the story. Maybe this, too, happened in an alternate universe . . .)_

HIGHLANDER: DEATH KNELL

Dressed in black denim jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, with the sleeves pushed up to just below his elbows, Duncan MacLeod came down the stairs of the tiny one-and-a-half story home he was renting in Fairbanks, Alaska, as though he were trying to escape the clutches of a Kodiak bear. The only thing on his mind as he hit the landing, however, was breakfast.

But, a split second later, all thoughts of food passed from his mind. His eyes scanned the room quickly, darting toward the drapes that hung in the front room window, through which he could see absolutely nothing; still, he knew that someone was there. "Kurgan!" he said, barely audibly.

The name of Kurgan had been a source of fear and dread throughout the ranks of the Immortals for millennia. He was the oldest of his kind—and the most unrelenting. It was because of Kurgan that Duncan had come here to Alaska.

Two months previously, while still in New York City, Kurgan had paid a visit to Duncan. Unfortunately, Mac had been out of the house at the time, getting young Richie Ryan out of trouble again. When the two of them returned, they had found Tessa dead. She would not tell Kurgan where to find Duncan, and so he had killed her—brutally and savagely, as was his custom. Duncan's anger had been stronger than his pain and he had gone after Kurgan in a furious rage, knowing that there would be time to cry for Tessa after Kurgan was dead.

They had fought in a warehouse—the same warehouse where he and his clansman, Connor MacLeod, had sparred some time before. And Kurgan had bested him—something very few Immortals had been able to do, no matter how old they were.

Duncan had barely been able to escape with his head intact, and he had hidden himself away, contacting only Richie (briefly) to ask him to retrieve his beloved katana. Kurgan had been watching the warehouse, waiting for Duncan to return. Duncan warned Richie that he probably would be and that Richie must do the best acting job of his life if he was to enter the place safely and get out alive with Duncan's sword—never mind trying to get it to Mac. And, although a knot the size of Kurgan's fist had twisted Richie's gut, he had swallowed the smaller one in his throat and had gone.

Being a bright and resourceful—if not completely honest and upright—young man, Richie had contacted some of his friends and suggested a number of "dares" that the group might do within the walls of the old abandoned warehouse. With the comfort and safety of numbers surrounding him, Richie had entered the warehouse, and, following an hour or more of boyish challenges, left with Duncan's katana tucked safely inside his overcoat. Kurgan had suspected nothing, and Richie had gotten the sword to Duncan undetected.

By the time Richie arrived at Duncan's hiding place, his friend was fully healed. On an emotional level, however, he was far from ready to face Kurgan again. The horror stories he had heard about the man were proving to be true; and, for the first time in years, Duncan MacLeod was genuinely afraid.

Now, here he was, thousands of miles from New York City, and he hadn't even been able to attend Tessa's funeral. Kurgan, he knew, would be there; and it is quite impossible for Immortals to disguise themselves from one another: they can always sense each other's presence—just as Mac was sensing one now. Holding his katana over his shoulder like a baseball bat, he said loudly, "Come in, old man, and let's get this over with."

The door opened—neither too slowly nor too quickly—and in walked a man Duncan had never seen before. "I am Martin Lomax," said the stranger, sitting down in an armchair and putting a long, slender box down on the hassock in front of him. "I have come for your head."

"Never heard of you," said Duncan, his sword still poised for action.

"I'm not in the least bit surprised," said Lomax. He appeared to be middle-aged, which meant that he'd been so when he had become immortal. He had a sallow complexion; hooded but bulging eyes that were rimmed by dark circles; and he was dressed in Western garb, complete with an oilskin slicker and a battered, brown felt Stetson.

"I have spent decades working on this little device," he said, as he pulled out two pieces of plastic and metal from the case that sat in front of him. He assembled the two pieces, and Duncan lowered his sword, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It couldn't possibly be what it looked like! If Richie were here, he'd probably say something like, "Oh, wow! It's a light saber—just like from _Star Wars_!"

Duncan, however, was prone to be a bit more skeptical about that sort of thing being genuine. "What?" he asked Lomax with a chuckle. "Do you plan to take my head with _that_? It doesn't even have a blade."

Lomax stood up, the black handle of his bizarre weapon held firmly in his right hand. "That's where you're wrong, my friend. The blade may not be visible—" he said, flicking a switch with his thumb, "—even when it's turned on. But I guarantee you—" he paused as he touched the invisible blade with a piece of scratch paper that Duncan had left lying on the coffee table, "—it's there!" Then, as Duncan watched, the scrap of paper in Lomax's hand disappeared in a puff of smoke—literally. "Complete and total incineration," said Lomax, holding out his empty hand for Duncan to see. "Unfortunately, I haven't yet had an opportunity to try it out on human flesh . . . Oh, pardon me—my mistake . . . on _Immortal_ flesh. I am pleased to say that you will be my guinea pig."

"Why me?" asked Duncan, once again poising his katana for battle.

Lomax shrugged. "Because, of all of us that are remaining, you are the youngest. You have had less experience than Kurgan or Connor. I think I stand a better chance with you."

"Let's get on with it, then."

Lomax gave a slight bow. "As you wish."

Duncan was mesmerized as he heard the invisible beam of light make physical contact with the blade of his katana. Did it have the power to cut through the steel? _Thank God, no! _It had a limit, then. Duncan gained confidence, parrying the invisible beam of light as though it were a blade of solid metal. Another quick parry with a twisting thrust, and the "light saber" was thrown from Lomax's hand.

Without so much as a blink of an eye, Duncan raised his katana and smote off Lomax's head. Falling to his knees, he waited. Within seconds, the entire house was alight, while lamps, light fixtures and electrical appliances exploded throughout the domicile.

The Quickening was of short duration and not as intense as many Duncan had experienced. Duncan guessed that Lomax had been in seclusion for some time while working on his new weapon. He had not beheaded anyone for quite a while. Nonetheless, the Quickening left Duncan breathless, and he stayed on his knees for a few minutes, breathing deeply. He would take the light saber back to home—to Richie. It was the least he could do. But that would have to wait. For the moment, Duncan MacLeod needed breakfast.

Duncan disposed of Lomax's body in a lake a few miles from his house before beginning the long trek back to New York. He intended to walk the entire distance. He was in no hurry. There were plenty of stores along the way where he could buy new shoes; and any number of hotels, inns and motels in which he could spend the long, solitary nights. He had never—in all his four hundred years—missed a woman as much as he did Tessa. She had become so much a part of him that life without her seemed meaningless. Still, he was driven to continue—if not because he wanted The Prize for himself, then to keep Kurgan from winning it.

It had taken the combined efforts of both Duncan and Connor to take out the evil Slan; and Duncan thought that they stood a better chance against Kurgan if they worked together, too. Of course, that meant that if they succeeded, they would be forced to fight one another for The Prize—and that was something that Duncan did not relish. Connor had tutored him in the ways of an Immortal. They were more than clansmen; more than friends. They were brothers under the skin. Of all the Immortals Duncan had ever known, none was as dear to him as was Connor. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could take out Kurgan through their united efforts, but not without him taking out one of them in the process. Then they would not have to fight each other.

As he traveled—keeping mostly to little-used side roads so that passing motorists would not be tempted to offer him a ride—a strange feeling began to come over him. He was hiking through the Rocky Mountains, in an area dotted with caves, cavities, and grottos. Slowly, carefully, he picked his way up the side of a rocky cliff until he reached a place of level ground where stood a large boulder. It seemed impossible, but the feeling was there: an Immortal was hidden behind that rock. With all his might he pushed until the stone rolled free. "You can come out now," he called to whoever was inside. "I've moved the boulder."

No sound emitted from the cave entrance; nothing moved. Drawing a small flashlight from the pocket of his coat, Duncan entered the cave. The sight that met his eyes left him speechless: boys—at least a dozen of them—all dressed in sackcloth. Some were sitting on rocks; some were leaning against the cave walls. Others were lying on the hard, dirty floor of the cave. They appeared to range in age from six to sixteen; but, of course, where Immortals were concerned, looks were very definitely deceiving. And there was one thing of which Duncan was certain: every one of these boys was an Immortal. He walked further into the cave—slowly, so as not to startle the boys. "Who shut you in here?" he asked.

The oldest member of the group stepped forward. He was nearly as tall as Duncan, but thin and wan from lack of food. Immortals might not (technically) be able to starve to death, but hunger could still make them pretty miserable. "It was a friar," the boy said in answer to Duncan's query. "We were in his orphanage when it was besieged by robbers. We were all slain, but not one of us died. Friar Ponce was convinced that we were demon-spawn and shut us up in here long ago."

_Long ago, indeed!_ thought Duncan to himself. It must have been during the time after the Spanish had ruled California and had missions set up all over this part of the country. "How did you boys end up in an orphanage?"

The boy shrugged. "We don't know. Friar Ponce found us wandering in the desert. He was convinced we had been part of a group of settlers that had been attacked by Indians and left for dead."

"This far west? At that time in history? It was a bad theory." Duncan shook his head.

"He believed our families had tried to homestead in Kansas, or someplace west of here, and that we wandered away after they were killed."

"But you don't believe that."

"We don't know what to believe. We only know that we have been in here for a very long time—and we are still alive. Who are you?"

"My name is Duncan MacLeod and I am just like you: I cannot die, either. That's how I found you—I sensed that you were here."

"We, too, felt something outside the cave, just before you rolled the stone away. Is this significant?"

"All Immortals can sense one another's presence. Now, tell me your names . . . You do have names?"

The boy nodded. "We may not remember anything else, but we do know we have names."

Duncan got acquainted with each of the boys and taught them, over the next several months, all they needed to know about being an Immortal—and most especially he taught them about Kurgan.

The oldest boy, whose name was William, spoke for the group. "We may be more than a century old, but we are still only children. We would stand no chance against this man Kurgan—even if we had a thousand swords each. We have no experience in such matters; and, even though you have taught us all that you can, still we are poor swordsmen at best. And you have not weapons enough to arm each of us, even if we could handle a blade well.

"My brothers," he said, addressing the other boys, "I have a plan. I propose that we scatter to the four winds—each to a different country. Make this Kurgan track us down, one by one. Very probably we will die in the end—and most cruelly, from what brother Duncan tells us. But perhaps we can buy Duncan and his kinsman some time. If Kurgan knows that we exist, he cannot stop until each of us is dead. But he must learn of our existence—and not through brother Duncan. He would not believe Duncan if he told him about us. He must see us for himself, and then he must be made to follow us—to leave Duncan and Connor alone until we are dead. One of the two MacLeods must win The Prize. Only they have the wisdom to use the power judiciously. "What say you?"

With a unanimous shout of "Yes!" the boys clamored around Duncan MacLeod, and a heavy weight rested upon his soul.

Now that he had a dozen boys in his care, Duncan felt he no longer had the leisure to walk to New York. And, besides having the boys to care for, much time had passed. There was a possibility that Kurgan had given up on finding Duncan for the moment, contenting himself with the destruction of Connor MacLeod instead.

As he and the boys disembarked at Kennedy International Airport, Duncan prayed fervently that Connor was still alive. If he was not, Duncan feared the world was all but lost; and taking out Kurgan would fall to him.

He and the boys had no luggage, bringing only what they wore on their backs. Duncan had bought clothes for each of the boys and taken care of all their physical necessities, so that they looked and felt better than they had for more than a hundred years.

As Duncan herded his boys toward the terminal exit, the feeling hit him like a bullet in the brain: someone was here. Connor or Kurgan? "So," came a gravelly voice, "I was right: you did find Padre Ponce's boys. And you brought them with you. How considerate!"

"It's me you want, Kurgan. Let the boys go."

"You know I can't do that, MacLeod. I can't win The Prize until you're _all_ dead."

"Connor?"

"He's still alive—for the moment. But only because I choose to kill you first."

Duncan smiled. "You're afraid of him."

"I am afraid of no one—especially not a young Highlander."

"I'm younger than Connor, you know."

"Only in chronological years. He was born first, but he also died at a younger age. He is physically eighteen to your thirty-five. I'd much rather practice on the older and weaker of the two of you."

"By your reasoning, then, Connor should easily be able to defeat you. You're even older—physiologically speaking—than I am."

"But stronger."

"That remains to be seen."

"Name the place, Highlander. My sword craves your blood."

"The warehouse—where we fought before. Dawn tomorrow."

"Done. Bring the boys."

"Not on your life." Duncan shook his head, his eyes burning with determination.

"Then I will kill them here and now." Kurgan made as though to draw the sword that he had hidden beneath his greatcoat.

"In front of all these witnesses? I don't think so," Duncan said tauntingly.

"This is New York City, MacLeod. Who would even notice?"

"Not all of these people are as callous as you might think. And there are security guards."

Kurgan sighed. "Flies! They couldn't _hold _me, let alone _kill_ me. You know that." When Duncan didn't respond, Kurgan continued, "Stop stalling for time, MacLeod. Do you bring the boys with you in the morning?—or do I take their heads now?"

Duncan linked his fingers and put his hands behind his neck. "Neither," he said, swinging his elbows into Kurgan's face, which was just enough of a distraction to allow the boys to make good their escape. They had arranged the signal ahead of time—just in case. The boys each had a ticket to some far off destination—if only Duncan could stall Kurgan long enough for them to get away. In the end he would find them and kill them; Duncan knew that. But by then Duncan himself would be dead and past being aware.

"You have only delayed the inevitable, Highlander. I will kill them. All of them. Your bleeding heart kinsman will never do it; neither, I'm quite certain, would you."

"Those boys have suffered enough. Let them alone."

"What? And give up The Prize after three thousand years of waiting? You know better than that, MacLeod."

"Dawn, then. After that, if you survive, what you do to those boys won't really matter anymore. But you'll still have Connor to face."

"I've faced him before. I'm looking forward to it." Kurgan nodded his head and disappeared out the door, leaving Duncan pensive and depressed.

Connor was out of town; he'd gone looking for Duncan. A fine twist of fate. Connor had wanted the same thing that Duncan did: for the two of them to face Kurgan together and bring him down; and so he had gone looking for his fellow Highlander, to bring him back to New York for a showdown. And here Duncan was, back in New York, and Connor was gone. Duncan hung up the telephone receiver and left the airport terminal with a heavy heart. Like it or not, he would have to face Kurgan alone.

It was cold and still a little bit dark when Duncan arrived at the warehouse the next morning. He had spent the night on Richie's sofa and was gratified that his young friend had wanted to come with him to this encounter—to help, if possible. But there was nothing Richie—or any mortal—could do to stop Kurgan. Duncan was alone . . . or so he thought.

When the lights came on, he was surprised to see twelve young men—all armed with swords—awaiting his arrival.

"What on Earth are you boys still doing here? You were supposed to leave last night! And where did you get those swords?"

"After all you had done for us, we could not leave you to fight Kurgan alone," said William. "We found Connor MacLeod in the big book with telephone numbers at the airport and found out that he was gone. His woman gave us these weapons."

"But Connor doesn't use his real name! How did you . . .?"

"We looked for the name of his antique shop; we found him that way. You told us all about him, remember? It was not difficult." William sighed and looked at Duncan earnestly. "Like it or not, Duncan MacLeod, we are here."

"That's the best news I've had all day," came Kurgan's gravelly voice from the doorway. "So good of you boys to come. Thirteen for the price of one. Of course, fighting all thirteen of you at once will be a bit of a challenge, but I think I'm up to it."

The battle began. In the beginning, it wasn't much of a battle. The boys threw themselves into the fray with all the youth and enthusiasm they possessed, trying with all their might to defend and protect their master; but their efforts were in vain. Before ten minutes had passed, Kurgan had mortally wounded each one of them. He had not yet beheaded them, of course, for the quickenings would leave him weak, and vulnerable to attack from Duncan. But their bodies would take a long time to regenerate. Once Duncan was out of the way, he could take care of the boys at his leisure.

Now it was just Duncan and Kurgan. In an effort to psych himself up for this battle, Duncan had remembered Tessa—her lifeless body on the floor of her sculpting studio. Anger welled up in him, and he struck with a ferocity he had felt only a few times in his four hundred years of immortality. In the beginning he had the upper hand and pushed his advantage. He beat Kurgan back time and time again until the big man appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion; but it was Duncan who was tired. The constant pounding of the katana against the broader blade of Kurgan's great sword was wearing him down—and Kurgan knew it.

"Give it up, Highlander! Why don't you just kneel down on the floor and let me take your head? It'll be much less painful that way."

"I'm not . . . a . . . quitter!" cried Duncan, renewing his efforts and holding out for another twenty minutes. In due course, however, his strength began to wane, and Kurgan's stronger and more experienced arms began to get the upper hand. He knocked the katana out of Duncan's tired hands, and, as the Highlander attempted to retrieve his blade, Kurgan strode forward and lopped off his head.

The quickening was a lengthy and powerful one: Duncan had taken a good number of heads in recent years. Kurgan sank to the floor, exhausted, regaining his senses barely in time to behead the first of the twelve boys who was beginning to come around. One by one he took their heads—and their short, weak quickenings—until the warehouse was littered with bodies.

Triumphant once again, he raised his arms into the air and let out an ancient cry of victory that would have curled the hair of even the most blood-thirsty nineteenth century Native American.

The next morning, Connor MacLeod hurried to the warehouse, where he found the body of his dear friend Duncan and those of the twelve young orphans, who had been spoken of in legend—a legend that no one really believed was true. He clenched and unclenched his fist. "I'll get you for this, Kurgan. "You'd better start looking behind you. Another Highlander is on your trail."


End file.
